Bibliotheca
by Isefyr
Summary: John Watson runs a small, independent library in East London. He stocks shelves, runs seniors programs, and generally lives a quiet life surrounded by his books. Until, of course, life is turned upside-down by one consulting detective sprinting into his library on a case. (Fluff, friendship, romance is subtext.)


_**Bibliotheca**_

John Watson, Dr of Library Science, runs a small, independent library in East London. He stocks shelves, runs seniors programs, and generally lives a quiet life surrounded by his books. Until, of course, life is turned upside-down by one consulting detective sprinting into his library on a case. After that, it seems as though Sherlock is constantly in his library. Perhaps he has a lot of research to do…

 _ **i. riddle of the sphinx**_

Shelving books was by no means the most interesting part of his job, but John liked it. He liked the smell of ink and paper that stayed on his hands for hours after, and he liked sliding the books into their proper place, and he liked reading the titles as he went, imagining who had checked them out last.

History section. "A Complete History of Greece."

Mythology. "Anthology of Roman Myths and Legends."

Classics. "The Adventures of Sh-"

"If you were going to hide the passwords to government databases in a library," came a voice from behind him, "Would you put them in _archaeology_ or _horror_?"

John sighed, slotted the book he was holding carefully into place, and turned around to give this obviously insane individual a piece of his mind. However, instead of discovering a bored teenager as he'd expected, his eyes met with… a purple shirt.

Christ, he hated it when people were taller than him.

Moving his gaze upwards, he discovered that the owner of the shirt was not a teenager, but an adult like himself, sporting both a long coat and cheekbones that could cut glass. Black curls topped this strange ensemble, and John blinked at them in confusion.

"I don't have all day," said Cheekbones. John stopped his assessment of his person and scowled at Cheekbones, irritated.

"Children's literature, obviously," he said with a decisive snap. "Can I help you with anything else, sir?"

"Children's?" said Cheekbones with a frown. "I don't follow."

Further irritated that his sarcasm had gone unnoticed, John sighed heavily and asked, "Why on earth would someone hide passwords to government secrets in my library?"

"Good place for an exchange. Public place, open for long hours, not suspicious to visit for anyone. Hide something in a shelf, leave the decimal number of the book for the intended recipient, exchange is made with no fuss. Archaeology or horror?"

John blinked. Somewhere, hidden in the middle of that rapid speech, was a sharp intellect. Perhaps Cheekbones wasn't insane after all.

"Neither," John decided. "Government secrets would be in our History section, under Conspiracy Theories."

"Amusing," Cheekbones mused. "But highly probable. You're not at all dim. Thanks."

And with that, the black-haired stranger darted towards the History section, presumably to look for the passwords.

John allowed himself a moment's pause to wonder _what the hell_ before turning back to his shelves.

 _ **ii. the labyrinth**_

A week after Cheekbones had first shown up at John's library, John had almost forgotten the incident. It was strange, yes, but when he'd checked the shelves in Conspiracy Theories, nothing was out of place. He dismissed it as nonsense and returned to his books.

That is, until the man showed up again.

This time, John wasn't shelving but closing up, and after shutting off the lights in the back rooms and making sure that everything was neat and organized for the morning, was headed for the front door. Pulling his coat on, he was about to lay his hand on the handle when the door opened abruptly and someone walked in.

John didn't react in time and collided with the individual, feeling shirt buttons press against his face briefly before a hand wrapped around his bicep and steadied him.

He looked up and sighed internally as the sharp features of Cheekbones imprinted themselves on his retinas.

"The library is closed," he said pointedly.

"Excellent," Cheekbones said, locking the door behind him and making sure the sign was flipped. "Is there a back way out?"

John gave a long-suffering sigh. " _Why_?"

"I'm being followed," Cheekbones said flatly, already striding towards the bookshelves. "Surely you must have a fire exit or _something_."

"Is this a joke?" John wanted to know, turning off the front lights and grabbing at Cheekbones' sleeve to show him the way.

"I don't joke about murder," muttered the taller man, and John rolled his eyes.

They reached the back door, and John pulled out his keys to unlock it for the other man.

"What are you waiting for?" asked Cheekbones impatiently. "I have a murderer to catch."

John extended his hand. "John Watson."

Cheekbones stared at the hand as if he'd never seen it before, clearly confused. Why, he must have thought, was this man extending a hand instead of opening the bloody door already?

John raised an eyebrow, waiting. Cheekbones finally realized that he wasn't going anywhere until he completed this social nicety, and clasped their hands together.

"Sherlock Holmes," he said. "Now can you please open the door?"

 _ **iii. pomegranate seeds**_

John was almost looking forward to the next time that Sherlock dropped in.

Boy, was he wrong.

The next time that Sherlock came to the library, John was manning the help desk. He had his feet up on the desk, nose-deep in _Arabian Nights_ , and at the slight cough started guiltily and looked up at what he assumed was a disgruntled customer.

Thankfully (?) it wasn't – it was Sherlock, hair and coat damp from the rain outside, looking impatient.

As usual.

Sherlock spoke without a greeting. "Where do you host the programs for seniors?"

John looked Sherlock up and down. "You don't look like a senior to me."

"Of course not, it's for a case," Sherlock snapped, and then saw the small grin on John's face. "Oh, very well, mock me when there's the distinct possibility that a serial killer is amongst your seniors."

"Distinct possibility?" John's voice grew sharper.

"About 99% likely, yes."

" _Sherlock_ ," John said warningly. "You'd better be right."

"I usually am," replied the taller man.

John sighed and smacked his head down on his desk. "Libraries are supposed to be _quiet_."

Sherlock said nothing, and John sighed once more, loudly, then pulled the baseball bat that he used to threaten rowdy teenagers out from under the desk and headed towards the reading room in the back.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at the appearance of the bat and followed behind him, making sure to stay a safe distance behind.

After they'd apprehended the serial killer – John, it turned out, was quite persuasive with his bat - and the police had carted him away, John rounded on Sherlock before he could escape.

"Next time," he said accusingly, "Don't send your murderers to my library! We run _community_ programs! _Kids_ come here!"

"What makes you think I arranged his presence here?" Sherlock almost started to say, but then eyed the baseball bat John was still holding, and decided (uncharacteristically) to hold his tongue.

John continued. "If you _absolutely have_ to use civilians as bait, next time, why don't you just _ask_ me?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to disabuse this notion as ridiculous, but John's restless hand on the bat made him stop and reconsider.

"Okay," he said finally. "I will."

Unfortunately for John, he hadn't actually thought Sherlock would take him at his word.

 _ **iv. sirens**_

John was having a good day. No books were missing or torn, all of the kids' programs had gone off without a hitch, and he had a date at 6 with a lovely young lady who had been frequenting the library for the last week.

He was closing up the library once more, ushering the last of the stragglers out the door, when Sherlock blew through the door with an intent look in his eye.

John groaned internally. "Sherlock," he said urgently, "Do you think this could wait?"

Sherlock surveyed him up and down. "Tidy, hair has product in it, nice shoes… but are you _really_ going to wear that sweater on your date?"

"What's wrong with my sweater?" John protested, momentarily distracted. It was one of his favourites – a little long, yes, but he rather thought that the blue brought out his eyes…

Then what Sherlock said filtered through and John looked up sharply, suddenly suspicious.

"Sherlock," he said slowly, with a sinking feeling in his gut, "You don't happen to know a Miss Tatiana Moreno, do you?"

"It's Mrs., actually," Sherlock drawled. "You said I could use you on a case if I needed."

"I said to _ask_ me, Sherlock, why the bloody hell-"

"She's not my type," Sherlock interrupted. "Now, can we get on with it? We're going to be late."

"We?" John asked, horrified. This was just getting better and better.

"Relax, I'm not going to be sitting with you," Sherlock assured him. "I'll just be nearby. Try to get her to talk about what she's been doing recently, would you?"

"Let me get this straight," John said, holding up a hand. "You want me to go on a date with a woman, who is married, and probably a criminal, so that you can solve a case?"

"That's about right. Is that a problem? I thought you liked women?" Something was off about Sherlock's tone.

"It's the _criminal_ part that's important, Sherlock!" John exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air.

Sherlock's expression had altered, suddenly. He was no longer staring intently at John's face but now had withdrawn back to his habitual bored/impatient expression.

"Relax," he said. "She's not a murderer. Just an arms dealer."

And with that reassuring speech, Sherlock propelled John off to his date.

 _ **v. pandora's box**_

It was now routine for Sherlock to show up at the library, usually for assistance on a case – though John suspected Sherlock had an ulterior motive, as his powers of observation were far beyond what John could ever hope to achieve. However, John had no clue what this motive might be.

John wasn't sure he liked this development. Sherlock was constantly on his mind. He blamed it on the hare-brained dangerous situations that Sherlock continually got him into. He was certainly thinking of Sherlock all the time _simply_ because he wondered if he'd actually survive their acquaintance.

And that was it.

Until today's case/disaster.

One of the ladies that frequented John's library, a Mrs. Hudson, kept accidentally returning John's books to various public libraries, rather than bringing them back to him. Because John's library was privately run, and often the public branches refused to courier them over, this meant that he had to then go over to whatever branch she'd dropped them off at _this_ time.

Today, it was the Hammersmith library of all places, and John was not looking forward to the trip.

He was so absorbed in his own misfortunes that he almost didn't notice when Sherlock started to walk beside him.

"You look distressed." Came the voice from above his head, and John almost walked into a lamppost. When he recovered, he scowled up at Sherlock, who had a half-smile on his face. Probably due to John's flailing.

"One of my regulars keeps dropping books off in other libraries, " he grumbled. "I have to go halfway across the bloody city now."

"I'll keep you company, if you like," Sherlock said affably. John squinted up at him, sure that he was joking, but he appeared to be looking forward to the errand.

"All right," John said grudgingly, and they set off, discussing nothing in particular.

When they got to the library, John went straight to the help desk, preparing to do battle to reclaim his books, and Sherlock wandered off. Probably to deduce something, John thought.

But when he went looking for Sherlock after the books had been reclaimed, he couldn't find him.

He dutifully searched each floor of the library, like a mother who has lost her child, and then determined that Sherlock was nowhere to be found. Sighing, he headed back down the stairs, only to be unceremoniously dragged into a broom cupboard on the fourth floor landing.

"What the hell?" he spluttered, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the semidark. The closet wasn't very large – he was only a couple inches from the other occupant of the closet. His nose bumped a button before he recoiled.

"There you are, John," said Sherlock calmly. "I was waiting for you."

"In a _closet?_ "

"Yes," Sherlock replied. "I have determined that this is the best place to remain unnoticed past closing."

Past closing?

"Sherlock," John said, sounding wounded, "Did you only accompany me for a case?"

There was a pause. "Did you expect otherwise?"

John didn't answer, so Sherlock continued. "There's been suspicious activity by Hammersmith station. The library is an excellent, inconspicuous vantage point."

The closet was getting warm. John shifted uncomfortably, irritated that Sherlock couldn't spend time with him like a normal human being, and also irritated because he knew that he was going to forgive him anyways.

"John?" the voice was a little uncertain.

John sighed. What had he expected from Sherlock?

"We're going to be stuck in here for an hour," he grumbled, but he put his bag on the floor and settled in, trying not to bump Sherlock's chest with his nose.

And it was possibly the most uncomfortable hour of John's life.

The closet was cramped, and warm, and there were buckets and things on the floor so they couldn't sit, just lean awkwardly against the wall, trying not to knock over the brooms. John shifted from foot to foot for a short while, leaning back to avoid contact with Sherlock's chest. Not that he'd mind. I mean, he wasn't anti-Sherlock-chest or anything. But Sherlock would probably have some sharp remark about unnecessary contact. And _that's_ what he was avoiding.

Except the shirt seemed to be coming closer to him, so John leaned back more, and more, and -

"Sherlock!"

The consulting detective had put one hand on the wall behind John's head and leaned forward, resting his weight on it.

"I've determined that this is the most comfortable position," he informed John, whose nose was a millimeter away from Sherlock's sternum. He could smell almonds and vanilla. Who smelled like almonds and vanilla, for crying out loud?

The closet seemed like it was getting warmer.

When Sherlock gave the all-clear, John bolted out of the closet as fast as his legs would carry him. Closets, he decided, were very unsettling.

 _ **vi. psyche**_

Due to Mrs. Hudson's unsettling habit of leaving books in other libraries (John really wondered, sometimes, how on Earth she managed to leave books in libraries so far away), John was seeing a lot of Sherlock. He always seemed to show up when John was on his way to pick up the books, and John appreciated the company.

Often (okay, always) there was a case to work on, but John let it pass. Sherlock occasionally let a personal detail slip, and didn't act as though he was bored of John's company, so he considered it a personal win.

He mostly didn't think about the Hammersmith library closet.

One day, miracle of all miracles, Mrs. Hudson actually remembered to return her books to John instead of to another library. They were overdue, of course, but she brought them up to the counter with a smile and handed John her library card.

"I'm sorry that they're so late," she said apologetically, "But my lodger had my library card, for some reason. I think he was checking out books for cases. Why he can't just get his own card…"

John looked up from scanning _Window Herb Gardens_ , a knot starting to form in his chest. "Cases?"

"Oh, you know! Sherlock Holmes? Consulting Detective?" Mrs. Hudson said, oblivious to the stunned expression on John's face.

"Sherlock is your lodger?" John managed to get out, hand hovering about _Pole Dancing At Home._

"Yes, and he's mentioned you a couple times, says you're a 'useful fellow to know'," she prattled on about Sherlock and his antics in Baker Street. John didn't hear another word.

 _Useful?_

He'd thought they were friends, something closer, though he supposed that with the Great Sherlock Holmes he shouldn't be surprised. After all, sentiment was worse than useless. Sherlock just needed someone to get him close to potential crime scenes, and if they happened to be near libraries, then so much the better…

He should have noticed, really. The wayward books, though odd, weren't Mrs. Hudson's style. Criminology? Soil types of the world? Manga? Not her thing.

He'd been so blind.

John scanned the last few books without noticing, told Mrs. Hudson not to worry about the late fee but to keep better track of her card, and sat down behind his desk with a thump. He hadn't realized that Sherlock's friendship, companionship, _esteem_ had meant that much to him. But, apparently, he didn't have it.

And the fact that black curls and cheekbones seemed irrevocably branded onto his mind meant absolutely nothing to him.

John sent a courier to the British library for the next book, and went out the back door that evening, biting his cheek against the scent of almonds and vanilla.

 _ **vii. odysseus' return**_

John had been avoiding Sherlock for no more than three days (still a prodigious feat, he considered, as Sherlock had hunted down master criminals before) when the consulting detective finally confronted him.

Going out the back, John tried the door only to discover that it wouldn't open. He frowned and tried his key, but it didn't fit. It was as if the locks had been changed. Which was absurd, because he would have noticed.

Grumbling, he walked back into the library, heading for the front door.

Through the glass he could see a tall, dark-haired figure, and he stopped in the middle of the science fiction section and wondered if he could slip out of a window.

It was totally childish, but he seriously considered it for a moment.

However, he decided to face the music and head out the front door, if only to give Sherlock a piece of his mind.

John turned off the lights and went out the door, pushing it shut behind him and turning to lock it, as if his heart wasn't thumping a mile a minute at the sight of Sherlock standing in the rain.

"You've been avoiding me," Sherlock said finally. "Why?"

"Mrs. Hudson dropped by," John said, tone of voice slightly higher than usual. "Told me all about how you'd borrowed her library card and how _useful_ I was to you. I figured that I'd make it easier on you, so you didn't have to pretend you were my friend any longer."

Sherlock had a puzzled expression on his face, as if he was trying to process something that did not compute. "But you _are_ useful."

John made a disgusted noise and turned to stalk into the rain, like the heroine in a drama. However, before he could slink off, Sherlock grabbed his sleeve.

"You are useful," he said firmly, and John looked up at him. "You're not dim, either, and you don't humor me or laugh in my face, you've helped me out… don't you see how important _useful_ is to me?"

He was frozen in place, getting soaked by the rain, staring up at Sherlock's sharply lined face.

"I don't like sentiment," Sherlock said finally. "But I've had trouble focusing these last few days, because… I think, if I'm not mistaken, that I _miss_ you."

The knot in John's chest started to unravel at the uncertain look in Sherlock's eyes. He took a step closer as Sherlock went on. "So could you please not do that again? I like to be productive, you know, and you're making it utterly impossible to focus."

John raised an eyebrow. Some species of large butterfly seemed to have taken up residence in his stomach, but he pushed back on the feeling to ask, "Hard to focus?"

Sherlock nodded, his mouth a tight line, every muscle in his body tense.

"Okay," John said finally. "But… maybe you could afford to indulge in sentiment once in a while."

"My dear John," Sherlock said with a smile. "Isn't that exactly what I'm doing?"

 _ **coda**_

"Excuse me, Doctor Watson," came a voice from the other side of the desk. John looked up to see his… well, Sherlock.

"How can I help you?" he smiled, standing. He still had to look up, but somehow he didn't mind as much any more.

"What section would you hide a Valentine in?"

"Well, that'd be the –

John paused.

"Wait, what?"

 _ **télos**_

…

 _A/N_

 _Hello, all. Thank you for reading!_

 _This is my first Sherlock story, and while it is an AU, I can admit that I have neither lived in London nor committed all the details of the BBC series to memory, so please be gentle, haha. That being said, any constructive feedback is awesome!_

 _If you're reading this and wondering where the next chapter of Efflorescence is, it'll be out soon, I promise. I just had a plot bunny that I couldn't resist._

 _Thanks again,_

 _-Isefyr_


End file.
